Kneading the Gargoyle (Creature Comforts #1)

Chapter 1

My hands are screaming.

Truly. Not in some performative, poetic, flowery way.

They are literally on fire—deep in the meat of my palms, radiating up through my wrists, settling into my forearms like someone's been using my tendons as guitar strings for the past eight hours.

I flex my fingers over the chipped edge of my kitchen table and watch them tremble, the knuckles swollen and red at the joints, a bruise forming along the base of my right thumb where I dug into some finance bro's knotted trapezius for forty-five minutes straight while he complained about his Tesla's suspension and how hard it is to find a good personal trainer these days.

I should ice them. I should do about fifteen different things a responsible massage therapist does to maintain her own body—contrast baths, gentle stretching, maybe some self-myofascial release with the foam roller gathering dust in the corner.

Instead, I'm eating ninety-nine-cent ramen out of a plastic bowl, the kind that tastes like salt and regret, while my laptop screen glows with my banking app like a tiny beacon of financial doom.

I stare at the number, willing it to change through sheer force of desperation. It doesn't. It never does. The universe is not that generous.

My phone buzzes on the table, rattling against the warped wood. I already know what it is before I look.

FINAL NOTICE: Rent payment due in 7 days. Account currently $2,847 overdue. Failure to remit will result in eviction proceedings.

I set the phone down with deliberate care, like if I move too quickly the entire fragile structure of my life will collapse.

Pick up my fork. Twirl another clump of noodles that have the texture of wet cardboard and the flavor of industrial sodium.

The broth is lukewarm because my microwave is dying, making a grinding noise like it's chewing its own circuits every time I use it, and I can't afford to replace it because I can't afford to replace anything.

Seven days.

I do the math on my fingers, which is humiliating, but my brain is too fried to do it in my head.

I have three clients booked this week at my daytime clinic—that's $180 after the house takes their cut.

I have $340 in my account. Rent is $1,200, which means I'm short $2,847 total when you factor in the back payments, and that's not even counting the medical bills from when I sprained my wrist last year and had to go to urgent care because I couldn't afford to miss work.

The draft coming through the window behind me is cold enough that I'm wearing two sweatshirts and a pair of wool socks with holes in the heels.

The radiator has been broken for a month.

My landlord said he'd "get to it." He hasn't gotten to it.

He's too busy sending automated eviction threats and cashing rent checks from the other tenants who can actually afford to live here.

I open a new browser tab out of pure habit, muscle memory at this point.

Craigslist. Job boards. The same listings I've scrolled through a hundred times: retail positions that pay $12 an hour and require "flexible availability" which means they own your entire life, freelance gigs that want a master's degree and five years of experience for $15 per article, and approximately nine hundred ads for "models needed" that are definitely not modeling.

Then I see it.

After-Hours Specialist Needed. High pain threshold for deep-tissue work required. $5,000 signing bonus. Extreme confidentiality mandatory. Midnight shift, 3x weekly. Apex Wellness Clinic.

I stop chewing.

Read it again.

$5,000 signing bonus.

My brain does that thing where it completely flatlines, and then reboots, and then immediately fills with about sixty different alarm bells. Midnight shift. Extreme confidentiality. High pain threshold. This is either a scam, or I'm about to get trafficked, or both.

I click the listing anyway.

The job description is sparse. Almost too sparse, the kind of deliberately vague language that makes my bullshit detector start howling.

It lists the basics: licensed massage therapist required, minimum three years of deep-tissue experience, must be comfortable working with "high-profile clientele requiring discretion.

" There's a line about "physical resilience" and "tolerance for non-standard anatomical presentations," which is the kind of phrasing that makes me think either they're serving professional athletes with weird injuries, or something significantly weirder.

But then there's the salary breakdown.

$500 per session. Midnight to 3 AM. Three sessions per week.

I do the math again, this time on the calculator app because I don't trust my exhausted brain not to add an extra zero out of wishful thinking.

$1,500 per week.

$6,000 per month.

I set my phone down. Pick it up. Read the listing a third time, looking for the catch, because there's always a catch.

Maybe they want me to work in a basement.

Maybe "high-profile clientele" means mob bosses.

Maybe "non-standard anatomical presentations" means I'm going to be giving massages to someone's illegal pet tiger, or a professional bodybuilder who's been injecting so many steroids his muscle tissue has turned into concrete.

But $5,000 up front.

That would cover my rent. All of it. The back payments, the current month, and I'd have enough left over to fix my fucking radiator and maybe—maybe—buy groceries that don't come in a cup with a foil lid.

I laugh. It comes out sharp and bitter, echoing in my dingy kitchen. The kind of laugh that means I've already made up my mind and I'm just pretending I haven't.

I spend the next twenty minutes talking myself out of it.

This is insane. Midnight shifts at a mysterious clinic that requires "extreme confidentiality"?

That's not a job. That's the opening scene of a true crime podcast. I can already hear the narrator: Tamsin Beck was a struggling massage therapist in her mid-twenties.

She was last seen applying to a Craigslist ad that promised financial salvation. Her body was never found.

But then I look at my phone again. The eviction notice is still there, glowing like a little beacon of doom.

Seven days.

I open my email. My hands are still shaking, but now it's not from exhaustion—it's from the adrenaline of doing something monumentally stupid and knowing I'm going to do it anyway because the alternative is being homeless.

I pull up my resume. It's depressingly short.

Licensed Massage Therapist, three years of experience, certified in deep-tissue, sports massage, and trigger point therapy.

I worked at a luxury spa for six months before they downsized and laid off half the staff with two weeks' notice.

Now I'm at a walk-in clinic that smells like eucalyptus and desperation, where clients tip in crumpled singles and sometimes just change, and the owner takes forty percent of every session fee because he "provides the space and the client base. "

I start typing the cover letter.

To Whom It May Concern:

No. Too formal. I delete it.

Hi,

Too casual. Delete.

Dear Hiring Manager,

Fine. Good enough. I keep going.

I am writing to apply for the After-Hours Specialist position listed on your job board.

I have over three years of experience in deep-tissue massage therapy, with a focus on chronic pain management and high-intensity bodywork.

I am comfortable working with high-profile clientele and understand the importance of discretion.

I pause. Read it back. It sounds like I'm applying to work for the CIA, or maybe a very exclusive brothel.

I keep typing.

I have a high pain threshold, both professionally and personally. I'm used to long hours, difficult clients, and non-standard work environments.

I stop. Consider adding: I'm also used to bizarre employment situations and mysterious midnight clinics, so this feels right in my wheelhouse. Delete it. Too sarcastic. They probably want someone who sounds professional, not someone who sounds like they're one bad day away from a nervous breakdown.

I retype it.

I am available to start immediately and can provide references upon request. Thank you for your consideration.

I attach my resume. Hover over the SEND button.

This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.

But I'm also seven days away from being homeless, and my hands hurt so badly I can barely hold a fork, and I'm eating ramen that tastes like the concept of giving up.

I click SEND.

The email whooshes out into the void. I stare at the screen, waiting for an immediate bounce-back, some automated reply that says This listing has been removed or You have been flagged as spam.

Nothing happens.

I close my laptop. Set it on the table. My ramen is cold now, congealed into a solid mass at the bottom of the bowl. I dump it in the sink, which is already full of dishes I can't afford to run through the dishwasher because my water bill is also overdue.

My phone buzzes.

I pick it up, expecting another automated threat from my landlord.

It's an email.

From Apex Wellness Clinic.

Subject: Interview Scheduled – After-Hours Specialist Position

My stomach drops.

I open it.

Dear Ms. Beck,

Thank you for your application. We are pleased to invite you for an in-person interview to discuss the After-Hours Specialist position. Please arrive at the address below at 11:30 PM tonight. Bring your license and a form of identification. Parking is available in the private garage.

Address: 1447 Obsidian Place, Suite 12B

We look forward to meeting you.

– Apex Wellness Intake Coordinator

I read it twice.

Tonight. 11:30 PM.

It's currently 6:47 PM.

I have less than five hours to decide if I'm actually going to do this.

I spend the next three hours in a state of low-grade panic.